Case Closed #2, page 14
DELETE ONE LETTER AT A TIME, WHILE STILL ALWAYS CREATING A NEW WORD.
“Oh!” Eliza says. “I’ve done this before with the word snowing. First, I deleted the N to create sowing. Then I erased the O to create swing. Then got rid of W to make sing. Deleted G to make sin. Then in. Then I. You get the picture.”
“Each time we delete a letter, what remains still has to be a word?”
Eliza nods.
* * *
TO DELETE LETTERS IN THE FOLLOWING ORDER (L, S, T, A, T, N, G, R), CLICK HERE.
TO DELETE LETTERS IN THE FOLLOWING ORDER (L, T, A, R, T, G, S, N), CLICK HERE.
* * *
I CAN’T LET Guillotine get away with that major slipup.
“Was?” I say.
“Was what?” he snaps.
“You said, ‘Layla was.’ Do you know something about Layla that we don’t?”
He bares his teeth. “What exactly are you implying? That I killed Layla? That I’m a murderer?”
The silence between us is electric.
“Well, are you?” Eliza asks.
“I can’t believe you’re asking me that. I can’t believe you’re accusing me of that. How dare you!”
I say, “It’s a simple question—”
“That you’re avoiding,” Eliza points out.
Guillotine’s mouth twitches. “Follow me,” he says. “I need to show you something . . . you may be right, actually.”
I follow him through the hall, so excited I can barely breathe. What does he need to show us? What are we right about? I look to Eliza for a clue, but she gives me a thumbs-up as we walk. At last we stop at the part of the set where there are bubbling potions. “Step right here . . . that’s it. Perfect. Now, you said you were fans of this show, yes? Well, I want to show you one of the special effects. It may be relevant to your case. And as a bonus, you may remember this magic effect from season two, episode four. . . .”
He reaches onto the shelf in the potions room, retrieves a small ball, and throws it on the ground. It erupts into bright neon smoke, so thick I can’t even see my own hands. I cough as the smoke fills my lungs.
“I don’t like this magic trick!” Frank whines. “Where’s the rabbit in the hat?”
When the smoke clears, I blink a few times, because I have no idea how I got here—I’m in a small room I’ve never seen before, dark and tiny and cramped.
I gasp—partly from surprise and partly for air. “Where are we? How did he do that?”
“With a very high-tech lift,” calls a voice above us. When I look up, Guillotine is leaning over a big square-shaped hole in our ceiling, his floor.
“Hey!” I scream. “Let us up!”
“YEAH, YOU POOP FACE!”
“Not just yet. I think I’ll give you a little time-out . . . until you can learn not to falsely accuse people of crimes they didn’t commit.”
“But . . . this is a crime! What you’re doing right now!” Eliza argues. “Imprisonment and reckless endangerment!”
Guillotine doesn’t make any indication that he heard Eliza. “And now, for my final act, I shall make you disappear . . . now I see you, now I don’t!”
And with a thump, he closes the hatch on us, and everything goes dark.
CASE CLOSED.
THE LINES THROUGH the dots have made an arrow, and they’re pointing toward the left path.
Without even waiting to see if Eliza and Frank are in agreement, I veer off to the left.
In the flashlight beam, I can barely see, but the wood floor looks rotting and old; it groans beneath our feet. The peeling walls are tight around us—there’s barely enough room to walk without having to turn slightly sideways. And worst of all, there are no doors or windows or any sort of ventilation. I never thought I’d miss the tunnels in Guinevere LeCavalier’s mansion so much. At least those tunnels were wide and breezy, and I wasn’t in constant danger of eating a spider—
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
The bloodcurdling scream makes my hair stand on end.
“HELP! HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!”
My stomach swoops. It’s her! Layla Jay. I recognize her voice from TV. Only . . . right now, she isn’t acting.
Eliza’s gray eyes are wide with fear. “Layla,” she whispers.
“We have to help!”
We run toward the sound.
“LAYLA!” we shout. “LAYLA, WHERE ARE YOU? CAN YOU HEAR US? LAYLA!”
“HELP! HELP ME, PLEASE!” she shrieks again, and I realize something that makes my stomach drop like a stone—her voice is coming from the other side of the wall. Only there are no doors. No windows. No way to get to her. I start knocking all over the wall—maybe there’s a trick wall or some sort of secret passageway that will open up.
“Hold on, Layla!” Eliza cries.
“PLEASE! SAVE ME! WHOEVER YOU ARE, PLEASE—I’M TRAPPED!”
And just when I think I can’t get any more panicked, a deafening alarm starts ringing through the hall. Brrrrrrrrrng! Brrrrrrrrng! Brrrrrrrrrrng!
“The fire alarm!” Eliza says in panic.
“Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!” Frank sings.
“Carlos, do you think it’s real? Or did someone just pull the alarm again, like Frank did yesterday?”
My instinct says it’s dangerous to ignore a fire alarm . . . but it is also dangerous to ditch a clearly kidnapped person in a dingy basement just to save our own skins.
“What do we do?” Eliza says, grabbing on to my arm too tight.
“Don’t leave me, please!” Layla cries.
“But it’s a fire,” Frank reminds me.
* * *
TO STAY WITH LAYLA, CLICK HERE.
TO ESCAPE THE BASEMENT, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“SO WHERE IS Layla?” I ask. “What did you do with her?”
“I didn’t—”
“LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE!” Frank shouts into the mic.
“You already gave us motive!” Eliza says.
“M-motive!” Like a rubber band, Tuggle snaps back to herself. “I didn’t do anything!” she says. “How dare you accuse me? I’ve done nothing wrong!”
Then she runs.
Locked in this booth, we scream and shout and yell and shriek until we lose our voices. And still no one comes for us. It’s hours before someone finds us, and by that time, Tuggle is long gone.
Though the soundproof booth mutes all noise, I can still hear failure ringing in my ears.
CASE CLOSED.
WE HAVE TO find out what Louise knows about Layla’s mysterious note.
We wait until the door closes behind Mom before we turn to Louise. She gets so nervous she takes a step backward.
“Wh-what can I help you with?” she says.
I reach into my pocket and pull out our translated version of Layla’s Morse code note: Louise. Photos. November 16. “Does this mean anything to you?”
Louise’s eyes grow wide. “That day . . . it was five days before Layla went missing. There was a special screening of the season three finale, which Uncle Wolfie snagged me a ticket to, and omigosh, it was so awesome!” She pauses. “You know . . . I have pictures from that day!”
“Pictures of what?” Eliza asks.
“Mostly just pictures of Layla.” She blushes furiously. “I know I’m not supposed to go near her after that incident at the Kids’ Choice Awards last year . . . you know, when I accidentally cut off a lock of her hair . . . but I couldn’t help taking pictures of her last week. She looked so graceful. So poised.” She self-consciously twists her hair. “She’s everything I’m not.”
“What do you mean?” I say.
Louise looks down at her shoes. “She’s so perfect. I’m so . . . unperfect.”
“Imperfect,” Eliza corrects automatically.
“You see!” Louise cries. “I’m even imperfect at being imperfect!”
“Celebrities aren’t perfect,” Eliza says. “I can forget that too, sometimes. But actors are just . . . people. People with very visible jobs.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” I add. “We’re right there with you, Louise,” I say. “I can get moody sometimes.”
“I always put my foot in my mouth,” Eliza offers.
“I pick my nose,” Frank adds.
Louise smiles. A big mouthful of braces shines at us. “Thanks,” she says. “Here, let me get the photos for you.” Louise digs into her bag and pulls out a bunch of pictures. “Some of the photos are a little underdeveloped, though. My dad accidentally let light into my darkroom, which, like, completely kills your photos.”
She hands us her stack, and I flip through the pictures: Layla posing on the red carpet, Layla signing autographs for fans, Layla glancing nervously behind her on an empty sidewalk, Layla waving at the paparazzi.
“Wait!” Eliza says. “Go back to that other photo!”
I turn back to the picture of Layla glancing behind her. The image of Layla is clear, but the background of the picture is shadowy.
“Yeah,” Louise says. “I took it right before she ran smack into me—I nearly dropped my camera!”
“What?”
“Yeah. Layla bumped into me.” Louise grins. “I’m never going to wash that outfit again!”
“Half of the picture isn’t clear.”
“Like I said,” Louise says with a shrug, “my dad ruined this batch.”
“We can see enough,” Eliza says. “You know, if we took a pen and outlined the shadowy areas, I wonder if we might be able to detect what Layla was looking at—what she was so scared of!”
“Time to connect the dots in this mystery,” I say.
* * *
WHAT NUMBER IS HIDDEN IN THE PUZZLE?
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 437, CLICK HERE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 137, CLICK HERE.
* * *
I CUT GREEN, blue, red, yellow. I expect something to happen, but the timer just keeps counting down. One minute left before this thing goes off.
“Uh-oh!” I yell. “Everyone hide!”
In this room the size of a closet, though, there really aren’t any hiding spaces. The only thing I see is a small cabinet. Inside, there are reels of footage. I throw them all on the floor.
“Thirty seconds left!” Eliza squeaks.
Eliza, Frank, and I squeeze inside, crouching in the dark. My pulse pounds in my ears.
BOOM!
The sound of an explosion is unmistakable. Instinctively, I grab Eliza and Frank to protect them, and they both huddle closer. Something thumps against the cabinet door. And then . . . I think the worst is over.
“Are we safe?” Eliza whispers.
“I think so. Let’s check it out.”
I push on the cabinet door, but it is stuck. Uh-oh. I bang, thud, kick—I’m like a tornado against the doors. Frank and Eliza too. But it’s no use. The door is sealed shut.
“I think there’s a chair or something in our way,” Eliza says between gritted teeth as she shoves the door again. “Something heavy got knocked into place, and it’s keeping us trapped.”
We keep pushing, but it’s a useless effort. I’m certain by the time we get out, Layla will be gone for good. If only the cast and crew were still on set! I just hope they can find us . . . before they have three skeletons in the closet.
CASE CLOSED.
I GRAB MOM’s hand and Eliza’s hand and run in the opposite direction. Frank follows, leaping from rock to rock like a ballerina.
“If you run, you’ll never see Layla again!”
That stops Mom in her tracks, but I pull her along. We have to get help!
When we reach the studio, we call the police right away, who say they’ll be back after the ransom exchange. They don’t believe us when we say the ransom exchange is just a decoy!
But a few hours later, they do believe. And by the time they get back to the set and into the woods, it’s empty. Even the tombstones with our names on them have disappeared.
A whole lot of good it does, knowing who kidnapped Layla if we don’t have the kidnapper or the kidnappee in our custody. And the worst part of all? Tuggle was right: no one ever saw Layla again.
CASE CLOSED.
WE FINALLY HAVE Layla’s message deciphered.
If you are reading this, then I must have been kidnapped. You will need the passcode to my chest: two five six. I’m in grave danger.
PLEASE HELP.
We have a creepier mystery on our hands than I thought.
“Passcode to her chest?” I say. “What chest?”
“This is a chest,” Frank says, pointing to his front.
I shake my head. “No, Frank, I think Layla means a chest. Like a treasure chest. It’s a, uh, synonym.”
“Cinnamon?” Frank says.
“You mean homonym,” Eliza corrects.
And . . . this just goes to prove that Eliza is the smartest person I know. In every subject, not just math. I pass the letter to her.
She points to the first line of the letter. “Look at this, Carlos. Layla knew she was going to disappear before it happened. This letter is proof—”
“What are you doing in here?” says a voice from the doorway. I turn, and Brad Bradley, teenage superstar, is standing there with his arms folded. “Who are you? Who told you you’re allowed to be in here? Are you . . .” He trails off, looking like he swallowed a bug. He gulps before continuing. “Are you friends with Louise?”
“Who is Louise?” I ask.
“Layla’s psycho stalker.”
Layla has a stalker?
“What do you mean, stalker?” I ask.
“No, wait,” Brad says. “If you’re not with Louise, then who are you?”
“We’re defectives!” Frank says proudly.
Brad Bradley’s eyebrows shoot up.
“He means detectives,” I correct. “We’re here to figure out what happened to Layla. Right, Eliza?”
I elbow Eliza, and she lets out a tiny squeak. I look at her, and she’s about ready to faint as Brad Bradley runs a hand through his floppy mop-top hair.
“Erd, skigget, woggum, quark,” she whispers.
Yikes. She’s more starstruck than a solar system.
“Guillotine hired you?” Brad says. “You’re a bunch of babies!”
“Humph!” Frank pouts. “I am rubber, you are glue. Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you!”
“Guillotine didn’t hire us,” I say.
Brad frowns. “Yeah, that didn’t seem like him. I doubt he’d want to find her anyway. He’s probably happy she’s gone. He hates her.”
Why would Guillotine hate his lead actress? Could he have a motive to make her disappear? Then again, maybe I should ask Brad about Louise, the stalker. That also seems like a promising lead.
* * *
TO ASK FOR MORE INFORMATION ABOUT GUILLOTINE, CLICK HERE.
TO ASK FOR MORE INFORMATION ABOUT LOUISE, CLICK HERE.
* * *
I ENTER THE code 8567, and a giant net drops from the ceiling.
“Weeeeee! Look at me! I’m a tuna!” cries Frank.
My first thought is Mom. She can get us out of this mess! I need my walkie-talkie. But the net is pulling my arms in tight—I’m too caught up in this web to reach my pant pocket. I have to get out of the net first. Eliza and I try to disentangle ourselves from the net, but the more we try to get out of it, the more we get stuck. Not only are we twisted up in the net, but the three of us are tangled together too.
“That was too easy.” The masked kidnapper shoves us off to the side and enters the small door. Moments later, the kidnapper is dragging an unconscious Layla out of the basement and away for good, while we’re still trying to undo fifty million stupid knots. And let me tell you: I am knot amused.
CASE CLOSED.
IF OUR BUTTS aren’t in those chairs when Mom gets there, Eliza, Frank, and I will be toast. We don’t have time to poke through Wolfgang’s office—not if we want any shot of investigating in the future.
I pull Eliza and Frank through the long hall and across the set, where Guillotine glares at us as he’s working with Brad Bradley. We go to sit on the chairs, behind the cameras.
“You’ve returned,” Mom says. I didn’t even see her, standing behind the robot dragon. But now Mom steps toward us slowly, like she’s the evil witch that Layla’s character, Aurelia, keeps trying to defeat. “Where were you?”
“I had to go to the potty,” Frank says.
“Right,” I say. “He was doing a bathroom dance, and so I took him to the bathroom, so he wouldn’t get into any trouble. And Eliza . . .”
“Used the girls’ potty!” Frank says. “Because she’s a girl.”
“Carlos, what you did back there—you disobeyed me, you embarrassed me, you embarrassed Las Pistas Detective Agency. I don’t even know what to say.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, but she steamrolls over my apology.
“If you step out of line one more time, I’ll make sure you’re as far away from any investigation as you can get! You know, hijo, after that stunt you pulled in the summer—stealing and solving my case while I was sick—I thought we were working back to a place where we could trust each other. I want to trust you, Carlos.”
“You can trust me, Mom,” I say softly.
“I wish that were true,” she replies, and my eyes sting. Mom has the world’s best “I’m disappointed in you” shame speeches. “I’m giving you one last chance to earn my trust. Do not make me regret it. I expect you three to stay right here while I keep doing my job.” Frank poses in a very awkward position, freezing into place. “Just like that,” Mom says with a satisfied nod. And then she’s off.
“I’m sorry,” Eliza says, gently putting a hand on my back. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I say, more aggressively than I’d intended. I don’t want to disobey Mom. And I do want her to trust me. But I also wish she’d let me help find Layla. Doesn’t Mom realize that she’s keeping me away from the thing I enjoy—and the thing I’m good at? This is who I am.
